


sing for the damage we've done

by velvetopia



Category: Moral Orel
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Gen, Past Abuse, Seizures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 03:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14227653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetopia/pseuds/velvetopia
Summary: Christmas Eves in later years.





	sing for the damage we've done

**Author's Note:**

> i originally published this fic in february 2015, and then at some point i deleted it (along with the rest of my moral orel fanwork) in a fit of pique that i now kind of regret. anyway, three years and some new experiences later i feel compelled to bring this and "a white and soundless place" back from the dead for anyone who was missing them, even if that anyone is just me.
> 
> the title comes, of course, from "alpha rats nest" by the mountain goats.

It’s Orel and Christina’s first Christmas Eve as a married couple, and the first thing Clay says to them when he shuffles through the door is, “I’ve been sober for twenty-four hours.”

Bloberta, coming in behind him, makes a noise in the back of her throat and doesn’t bother to lower her voice when she tells Christina, “I’m giving him until he gets home tonight.”

Christina smiles politely and Orel says, “Congratulations, Dad,” because he knows that’s what Clay’s looking for.

“Yeah, yippee for me,” mutters Clay, and Orel notices his hands are shaking.

“Well,” says Christina in the most ‘let’s-change-the-subject’ tone she can muster, clasping her hands together. “We’re just about to get the food on the table, but—”

“Let me help you with that, dear,” Bloberta cuts in, and as Christina moves to walk towards the kitchen with her she glances at Orel, and then at Clay, and then back to Orel, quick but long enough for Orel to catch her meaning. Orel nods an ‘it’s fine,’ and Christina throws him a slightly concerned smile before leading her mother-in-law out of the room.

When Orel turns back towards his father Clay has hung his coat a little haphazardly on the hook next to the door and is drumming his fingers on the side of his face, glancing nervously around the room.

“Dad,” says Orel. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” says Clay, a little too sharply. He pauses. Squints at Orel. “You still don’t drink?”

“Sober as a church mouse!” says Orel with a weak chuckle. Clay grunts and rubs the back of his neck and there’s a long moment when the only sound is the gentle clinking of dishes from the dining room.

“I’m—” Orel says, quiet, a little wobbly. “I’m glad you’re trying.”

“Yeah, well,” says Clay, and takes a breath like he wants to say something else, but cuts himself off and looks at the floor instead.

Christina thankfully pokes her head in at that point to let them know it’s time to start dinner, and she brushes her hand against Orel’s as he limps towards the table.

Once they’re settled, though, Orel notices Clay is making an odd little expression, one he can’t quite place, so he takes a shot in the dark and asks, “Dad, would you like to say grace?”

“Fffgh,” says Clay, and promptly begins to seize.

Bloberta lets out a short cry and knocks her chair over getting up and away from him, and Christina jumps to her feet, covering her mouth with her hands and looking wildly towards Orel right as Orel is gripping the table to hoist himself up and looking wildly towards Christina. Christina says something jumbled about 911 and runs towards the phone, and Orel shouts after her, voice high with panic, “Ask them what we’re supposed to do!”

“Uh,” says Orel, flapping his hands, turning back towards Clay convulsing in his chair. “Uh, uh, uh, uh—”

He and Bloberta lock eyes and wonder in tandem if this is it, if this is _it._

“Mom,” he says, strangled, the word caught deep in his throat, and Bloberta sucks in a quick, hitching breath. Christina rushes back in, phone tucked in the crook of her neck.

“Um, two minutes, maybe?” she squeaks into the receiver. “He’s—okay. Okay. Yes, twenty-four hours. Okay. Yes, he’s—he’s in a chair. I—you got the address, right? Is someone coming? I don’t—how long? Okay. Okay. Thank you. Okay.”

Orel looks at Christina desperately as she hangs up. “They said not to touch him if he’s not in a position where he might—where he might choke if he throws up,” she says, halting. “Has he—?”

Orel shakes his head. There’s a sudden sound that he realizes is the _lack_ of the sound of Clay’s limbs bumping up against the chair and table, of his guttural noises, and everyone very slowly turns their eyes back to him. There’s a long stretch of silence, punctuated by all their heavy breathing, and in the distance there are sirens.

Clay’s eyes flutter open.

* * *

 It’s Christmas Eve, and Orel and Christina’s first child is only a few months old, but they’ve scheduled the family dinner nonetheless. Art and Poppet were over last year, so Orel’s parents are here now; Shapey and Block, public servants that they are, couldn’t make it to the dinner itself, but Block said he’d drop by on Christmas morning, and Shapey was going to come over for dinner the next night.

And Orel supposes Danielle must have gotten the year wrong, because he shows up at the door with an armful of presents and a smile only to come face to face with Clay. And it’s been twenty years now, but Orel, from across the room, can see the hard line of his father’s shoulders weaken, his grip on his glass—he’s long since slipped back into old habits—tightening. Danielle makes a quick, twisted-up face—Orel doesn’t want to know what Clay’s face is doing—before settling into something carefully neutral.

“Clay,” says Danielle, nodding slightly.

“Danielle,” Clay chokes out.

And that’s all Danielle will give him. He slides into the room, puts his gifts by the tree and lets the small, warm smile wash back over his face as he turns towards Orel.

“Merry Christmas, kid,” he says, smooth as ever, somehow the same man he was all those winters ago. Orel thinks of ice-skating and beams.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, and then, for a moment, he catches a glimpse of his father, still standing small and desperate by the door. Starting to gray at the temples. Face lined and hollowed out from the years of alcoholism. And somehow, the same man who had bared his weak and selfish soul all those winters ago. 

Orel shifts his eyes back to meet Danielle’s. “Do you—can I offer you anything?” he asks, but he can tell Danielle caught the look.

Danielle pauses before shaking his head. “Just stopped by to drop those off,” he says. “I’m meeting up with my sister and her kid.” He hesitates again, and Orel can see him sizing up the elephant in the room before pulling Orel into a quick hug.

“Say hi to Christina for me,” he says, letting out that low little chuckle, and he doesn’t spare Clay another glance when he walks out the door.

* * *

 It’s Christmas Eve, Orel and Christina’s first child is five, and Clay at least has the decency to be alone in the kitchen with Orel when he takes a hard pull of his drink (Clay always brings a bottle of increasingly strong liquor to Christmas Eve dinner now, no matter how many times Orel emphasizes he and Christina don’t touch the stuff, and he usually drinks most of it) and looks his son up and down with open disgust.

“You just love to be the victim, huh?” he says, and Orel’s pretty sure he knows where this is going but he works a smile into his voice anyway.

“What do you mean?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the glass of water he’s refilling.

“‘What do you mean’?” Clay repeats mockingly, and Orel realizes he’s drunker than he’d first assumed. “I mean your stupid leg, Orel.”

Orel turns off the faucet and turns to face his father.

“I mean,” Clay says. “You must just love looooording it over me, hobbling around like that. Well, guess what, kiddo?”

“What?” says Orel, measured, and Clay was obviously not expecting an answer by the way he has to fumble back to his point.

“I—you were ten!” he sputters. “Now you’re what, thirty?”

“I was twelve,” says Orel, not quite able to make eye contact, “and now I’m thirty-seven.”

Clay lets out a bark of a laugh, triumphant, and takes another drink.

“And you shattered the bone,” Orel continues, “and it’s never going to get any better than this.”

“The _bullet_ shattered the bone,” says Clay, low and poisonous, “and it was an accident.”

The phrase makes Orel’s breath hitch and without thinking about it he says, “There are no accidents.”

Clay freezes and there are night birds in the room, trees reaching up to the sky, cold hard dirt and shattered bottles beneath their feet. And Orel looks at him now, really looks at him, and he sees past the fire-lit decay of a father he thought was good to a sad old man with a drinking problem still trying to feel like he’s worth the effort.

Orel picks up his glass of water and walks out of the kitchen.


End file.
